


fireworks in his chest (bonfire in his pants)

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, fast burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25340155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Lance is a delivery boy, Keith is an alien, can I make it any more obvious ?
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 201





	fireworks in his chest (bonfire in his pants)

**Author's Note:**

> I said in a previous author’s note that the next klance I posted would probably be more ghost hunting klance (which is still in the works btw). And, I’m actually meant to be working on a /different/ fic for a fandom event atm. Plus there’s a bunch of stuff going on in my real life. BUT….Did you ever have a plot bunny that just wouldn't leave you alone? This fic hopped around my brain and generally made a nuisance of itself until I surrendered to the fluff. I sat down and banged this fic out in about two-ish sittings. There was very minimal editing/second guessing/faffing around, but I hope you still enjoy:

***

**Orbit around planet SS’42’89556’3 (“Earth”):** _stable at 3,456 kixats._

**Cloaking application:** _refresh interval set at standard 67 clicks/varg. Holo supported._

**Transmission feed:** _live. Last base contact registered ‘successful.’ Next contact, scheduled for approx. 24 varga out. Update accordingly._

**Fuel, nutrient rations, local currency:** _ adequately equipped, per guidelines Starx 7:1-5.  _

**Universal translator:** _live, fully functional. English (colloquial, planetary year 2265 A.D.) enabled._

Deft fingers update the ship’s headings more out of nerves than actual necessity. He pauses, looks to the side at his companion. She wants attention. A wet nose nuzzles his wrist, and he takes the hint, smoothing the soft fur on her forehead, her prickly whiskers, her fluffy cheeks. The beast’s tail wags in response, so the smoothing pet becomes a proper behind-the-ear scratch. She sits down, basking in the gentle treatment until she’s had enough. Then she levels him with a familiar side-eye. 

“What.” He can’t help but smile at her perceptive expression. “Don’t give me that look. I know. The only thing now is to just do it.” 

Never one for hesitation, he unbuckles the harness across his chest and stands. At the very least, it’ll be good to stretch his legs. 

*

Lance is in high spirits when he heads out for the last delivery run of the day. The air quality index is stellar (pollution only at 65.94%! Breathability is up, baby!), the sun is shining, and the perpetual drone of hovercraft is a pleasant background buzz overhead. He artfully sidesteps Jerrill (Jerrill is a sour-faced security guard who somehow always smells like day-old baloney sandwiches. He likes to give Lance a hard time; it  _ might  _ be related to the constant state of flux of Lance’s security clearance badge. He always seems to be either in the process of losing it or finding it whenever he’s unfortunate enough to have a Jerrill encounter). But today, Lance makes his way out to street level with zero issues. 

The hot summer air is tempered by a breeze persistent enough to whistle its way through the maze of office high rises and the complex matrix of roadways zig-zagging between them. The breeze is strong enough to lift the suggestion of curls from Lance’s forehead, to bring to mind the feeling of sand between his toes, and the perfect rhythm of the waves. Lance closes his eyes and enjoys it for a moment— memory as vivid as any big screen virtualscape— before he unclips his helmet off the strap of his messenger bag. He is still  _ technically _ on the clock. 

Sleek, black transport pods line the spaces around the building. Lance bypasses these;  _ his _ baby has a bit more  _ pizzazz. _

“Fuck yeah, baby! Look! At! You!!” Lance approaches his moped with a dance, a little two-step-shimmy, bobbing his head in appreciation. He circles the bright blue bike (chrome is  _ so _ 2264) to make sure that he appreciates the beautiful machine from every angle. Truly, she’s a work of art. 

(Brand new too! He won her off a virtual craps game about two weeks ago. Gambling is  _ preeeetty _ much illegal nowadays, but what the higher ups don’t know won’t hurt them. Yanno?) 

“One more run today, sweet-thing, and then it’s just you, me, and whatever happens to be on Netflix.” He snaps his fingers over his head in a couple of showy finger guns— the bike registers his logged biosymbol and purrs to life. Lance sighs; now  _ this _ is the life. 

And then he’s off. 

The last delivery goes off without a hitch. Traffic is heinous, but when is it not? Lance has lived in the city for years; by now he knows a thing or two about upways and sideways shortcuts and avoiding the I-10 during rush hour. His bike putters to a stop outside his destination— the building looks more or less identical from the one he just exited, but that’s typical too. He flashes his badge (see, Jerrill! He has it! So there!) at the security checkpoint, takes a palm sized silver cube out of his messenger bag and slots it in the delivery chute. 

Another job successfully completed. 

And now he’s free for the day. 

He’s thinking that Netflix has a badass new action movie he can watch—  _ Duke of Danger III: Triple Extermination X-Treme.  _ It promises hot babes, cool cars, snappy dialogue, hell yeah— and how great his evening is shaping up to be, when, 

A massive monster drops down on him out of the sky. 

“Waahh--what the--ah-shi—!” Lance swerves the bike first to the left, gets an eyeful of fur and claws and teeth, and overcorrects to the right. His blue beauty goes careening into a bush, Lance himself goes tumbling onto the pavement, and the beast is big enough to be caught in both sides of the crash. 

“Nobody panic, I’m fine! All good here, carry on,” Lance mutters as the endless stream of traffic doesn’t so much as pause at his wipeout. “Actually, what the fu—”

Yeah. The wolf—and it is an  _ actual _ wolf—is terrifying. Huge and massive and ginormous and monstrous. MONSTROUS. This is a monster? Is it even a wolf? 

Lance scrambles to his feet. How, bu, when, who— what the fuck is happening? Where did it come from??

Lance makes a mad dash to hide behind his moped. The beast growls, low in her chest. 

This is it. 

This is the end. 

He was here for a good time, not a long time. Lance eeps out a noise— his mind is coming up blank for cool last words, and that’s a shame— and closes his eyes. 

The wolf snuffles at his hair. Lance shivers. 

She licks his face. Lance squeezes his eyes shut. The end is nigh. 

Her breath smells. “Jesus Christ,” Lance mutters. He opens one eye and then the other. “If you’re gonna eat me, will you just get it over with already?” 

The beast sits back on her haunches. She looms over him. Tilts her head to the side. Lance raises an eyebrow. Her tail thumps against the ground. 

“Oohhhkay.” Somewhat put off by this extremely anti-climactic development, Lance stands up and brushes the dust from his jeans. He shoots the wolf a nasty look. “You better not have scratched Blue.” 

He mutters under his breath while hauling the bike out of the bush and doing a thorough inspection. The wolf watches, but does not have the decency to look apologetic. She sticks her massive face into his messenger bag. Lance grabs it away with a shout. 

“You’re just lucky nothing is broken.” Lance tells her sourly, holding the bag to his chest. He mimes a karate move. “And also that you caught me off guard. Otherwise you’d be toast!” 

He would swear that the animal looks bemused. What the fuck. 

“What the fuck,” Lance repeats, as he gets on his moped and drives away. 

“What the fuck,” he intones, as he turns the corner to his apartment building and the wolf is sitting there watching him, even though he left her behind two blocks ago. 

“What the fuck!” he cries, when he shuts the door to his unit, turns around, and the wolf is behind him. In his apartment! Her tail thumps against the floor. 

He has no idea what to do. 

He orders a pizza. 

The wolf makes uncomfortable amounts of eye contact with him while they wait in silence for the delivery drone. 

When the pizza pie arrives, Lance gives her a slice (or three) because he’s a gentleman. And also, while the wolf  _ seems _ to be a non-human-nivore, it is probably in his best interest if she does not get too hungry. 

* 

“Woof!!” 

He huffs through his nose in annoyance. She’s been gone for the better part of the afternoon, and he’s not supposed to be drawing attention to himself. He hisses out another call, trying to find his companion while still keeping his voice down: 

“Woof!! Wooof!!  _ Where are you _ ?” 

He lifts up the lid of a garbage receptacle and peers inside. Nothing. “Woof! It’s me, Keith!!” 

Two humans stop on the street and look at him in the alley. He squints at them, tries to square his shoulders and look intimidating. He’s short for a Galran, so he’s gotten pretty good at making himself look as tall as possible in a pinch. If he has to use his weapons...that would be bad. He already got an “excessive force” reprimand from Kolivan on his last mission, and that was when he was stationed on a hostile-class planet. Which Earth is not. 

Luckily the humans seem to take the hint and walk away quickly. He relaxes and takes his hand off the hilt of his knife. 

“You mangy mutt,” He mumbles under his breath. “You better be okay.” 

He keeps to narrow alleys, quiet corners, and lonely rooftops as he makes his way back to the secluded bit of park he’s been using as a base. He stands under the shadow of a tree and resists the urge to fidget in his clothes. The leather jacket pleases him in terms of the aesthetics— it’s bright red, and it has pockets!— but it’s hot. Much less breathable than his temperature regulated suit. And the planet’s surface is scorching compared to the cool, darkness of space to which he is accustomed. 

He takes out his comm and punches in the coordinates to locate his ship. This might be the first time in years that he has to use the line-drive to zip himself up from planetside. He wrinkles his nose. He’s never once been motion sick from flying, but the line-drive makes him queasy. The comm vibrates, indicating that his position is locked and that his ship is overhead. The sun will be setting soon. It’s time to go. 

Something rustles in the bushes. His knife is in his hand faster than his mind can register the sound. 

He blinks. 

“There you are!” 

The wolf’s tongue lolls out of her mouth in a smile. She closes her mouth in a snuffle-snort and wags her tail so hard her butt shakes. 

“You!” He can’t be mad at her. Not even for a minute. “I was worried!!” He opens his arms and the pup boofs his chest. He gives her a good head-scratch. 

A jogger passes and both of them tense. 

“Time to go, buddy,” Keith says. No sooner do the words leave his mouth than the fizzly feeling starts— always at the tip of his nose first, makes him feel like sneezing. And then the fizzly feeling is over the rest of him. And then he’s back on his ship. 

“Good girl,” he sighs, immediately moving to shrug off the hot jacket. He hangs it up neatly next to his cot and grabs a hydration pouch from the fridge before flopping down in the pilot’s chair. He sucks absentmindedly on the straw, one arm wrapped around the knee pulled up to his chest while he logs into the Blade’s ancient security system. The icon spins in the air while it loads. 

“Oh right,” His leg drops to the floor and he stands again. “Almost forgot.” 

He opens the door to the pantry and drags out an economy sized bag of kibble. The wolf’s dish is nearby; he washes it and refills it to the brim. Normally she’d be right on top of him during the whole process, but at the moment, she doesn’t seem to be hungry?

Even later, when he himself is eating supper, her kibble remains untouched. Weird. 

*

You would think that massive wolves raining out of the sky would be a one time thing. 

You would be wrong. 

The second time it happens, Lance is just as startled as the first. He’s on his lunch break, sitting innocently on a park bench, enjoying the fresh air. And a wolf drops out of the sky. He screams and throws his sandwich (the only weapon he has) at her. 

She snaps it up out of midair and looks happy about it. Eats the whole thing in one bite! Like this is some kind of  _ game! _

Lance swears at her, but she doesn’t take the hint. He shoo’s her away, but she just sits and looks at him. It is almost like she understands what he’s saying. In which case, he thinks, she’s extremely rude for ignoring him. 

He makes his afternoon deliveries with the distinct feeling that he’s being watched. No matter how deep into the city he goes, amber eyes and blue-gray fur seem to be around every corner, ducking just out of sight. It’s freaky. 

The third time it happens, Lance is prepared. The wolf (he assumes it’s the same one as the previous two times, because how many sky wolves can there be?) drops out of the air, but Lance takes a quick step back and promptly bops her on the nose. 

She whines. 

Lance immediately feels like a living piece of garbage. Just trash. The worst. 

“Oh fuck. I’m sor—Listen. I’m sorry. Seriously.” He rubs the back of his neck. Hikes up his messenger bag from where it’s cutting into his shoulder. “You just startled me, y’know?” 

She looks at him with huge, hurt eyes. 

“I’ll buy you a hot dog to make up for it?” Lance tries. 

She jumps to her feet, tail wagging. Lance cashes in a couple work credits at the nearest hot dog stand and magically, all is forgiven. 

He makes another mistake that day. He gives the wolf a name. 

Cosmo. 

(The stroke of inspiration strikes like this: there is a newspaper and magazine stand next to the hotdog vendor. While Lance is waiting on his ‘dog, a certain headline catches his eye:  _ “12 Sex Moves That Bring You Closer: These Hot Moves Will Start a Bonfire in His Pants…and His Heart.”  _ Lance is always amenable to starting bonfires in people’s pants and can hardly believe his luck. He reaches for the issue of Cosmopolitan, but is quickly reprimanded: “No paying, no touching,” from the vendor. Which is, fair, honestly. But you can bet that Lance is not shelling out almost ten bucks worth of work credits for one measly article about fire pants. So he backs off. 

But he’s left with an idea: Cosmo. 

It also makes sense because, obviously, the sky. The Cosmos. Duh.) 

“Do you like your hot dog, Cosmo?” Lance tests out the name. The wolf, Cosmo, wags her tail. She pushes a wet snout against his arm, as if urging him to buy another. (He gives in because he still feels the teensiest bit bad about the nose bop.) 

And from there, a relationship is formed. Lance delivers the remainder of his silver cubes to their respective locations with Cosmo in tow. She’s a good girl the whole time, somehow effortlessly keeping up with Blue. And doesn’t cause any trouble with any of the delivery clients. He buys her an ice cream cone as a reward for being so good. 

(He also buys himself an ice cream cone because the girl behind the counter at the ice cream parlor is cute. She asks about Cosmo, tucking a bit of pink hair behind her ear, and giggling a little while she pets Cosmo’s head. Lance watches bug-eyed at the whole exchange. He is  _ flabbergasted _ .)

“You’re a chick magnet!” Lance hisses at Cosmo as soon as they are out of earshot. “Why didn’t you tell me!” 

And then, out of nowhere, Cosmo disappears.

The forth, fifth, and sixth day are less remarkable than their first encounters, but basically, it goes like this: 

Wolf falls out of sky. Lance feeds wolf. Wolf follows Lance around. Wolf disappears into thin air. Lance feels strangely worried about his new pal and where she might be. Then the cycle repeats. 

It’s been about a week when Lance spots it. 

A pretty blue collar. 

It would fit Cosmo perfectly, he thinks. 

He buys it without a second thought. He waits until she falls out of the sky. She does, right after he collects his cubes for the day’s deliveries. “Cosmo! I have a treat for you!!” 

And she looks so proud when he puts it on. She does a little strut around Blue and he gives her a whistle. Her ears perk up, he snaps a picture. 

Oh! He leans forward and motions her close. The wolf snuggles next to him, and Lance does a peace sign. Selfie! 

“Cute!” He tells her, showing the wolf for her approval. It might sound insane, but just wait until he updates his dating profile. This picture is a  _ guaranteed _ swipe right. 

Except for.

The wolf doesn’t stick around. 

*

His boots are silent on the glass atrium as he makes his ascent. He reaches the apex— about 90 xats above the ground. A fall from here would surely kill him, but he’s never been afraid of heights. Steady hands remove his knife from it’s holster; he uses it to slice an opening in the delicate material. The square of glass drops, but he catches it before it can fall and smash on the ground below. 

There’s security, he knows. He’ll have to be careful about noise. 

In one fluid motion, he hoists himself through the opening and dips inside. The glass whiskers, strains, threatening to crack under his weight, but he’s quick to slide down to one of the supports. The noise was minimal, but was it enough to set off an alarm? He holds his breath, counting silently under his mask. Three, two, one…

Nothing. Earth’s technology has proven to be primitive, but Ulaz is always telling him to be alert all the same. Primitive could just mean a less sophisticated, more painful way to die. He still needs to be alert. 

Slowly, like shadow, like a trick of the light as the moon hides behind a cloud in the night sky above, he makes his way to the row of offices overlooking the building’s atrium. 

His destination is the corner office on the 49th floor. Past the first and second set of doors, his intel reports, there is a desk. And in that desk, his target. 

He drops to the floor on the 49th level, stays close to the wall. 

The door is locked; He removes a small device from his pack, a helpful bit of tech that the Blades acquired from Uenn. The diamond shaped device spins in midair, quivering as it locates the lock. It’s silent, even to his Galran hearing, and there’s no physical change. But when he pulls the door handle, it now slides forward without a hitch. 

(He’s always grateful that this technology was not in use when he was a teenager and still living at the base with Kolivan and his mom.) 

He’s so close. Just one more set of doors and then…

There’s a slight tinkling. He blinks. The wolf drops down, silent on her claws as she hits the floor next to Keith, but again. There’s a tinkle. She looks up to him, something catches the light. He ducks, on pure instinct— the first crack of a weapon is deafening. It misses him by a hair. 

Two more shots in quick succession, and he’s through the door, running. His knife is in his hand and the crackle of the security system hisses through the air a split second before the alarms go off. 

_ Shit, _ he thinks,  _ Shit! _ He jumps out of the 49th level, and catches the wall to back into one of the floors below, either the 46th or 47th. He’s trying his best to slink back out of sight before the guards are right on top of him again. He could still retrieve the target. He could fight his way out, he’s sure. And maybe he would, if this were a different assignment. But he doesn’t want to fuck this one up. This is  _ his _ mission. This is  _ Earth. _ He’s wanted this. He’s worked for  _ this. _ They can’t take it away from him. He won’t let them. 

He grits his teeth and looks to the wolf. His nose fizzles. 

Back in his ship, he hollers out a frustrated yell, tossing his mask to the side. He doesn’t punch anything, but instead, runs a hand through his hair. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Counts to five. Takes another breath. Another. Another. Until he’s not gritting his teeth anymore and his heart rate slows down. 

His shoulders drop. What was the tell? What gave him away? He tries to replay the moments. There was a sound. A tinkling. From what?

The wolf nudges his hand and there it is— the sound. 

“What the hell?” 

The wolf, she’s wearing a collar? Bright blue against her fur. And on the collar there is a tiny bell. 

“What the hell?” He repeats. “Where did this come from?” Completely and totally perplexed, he takes the collar off. “Woof, where did you get this?” 

The wolf sighs and flops over on the floor with a huff. 

*

Okay so where is Cosmo? 

“Here girl, here wolf-y, wolf-y, wolf-y!!” Lance has a box of Milk-Bones in one hand and a portable lightflux amplifier in the other. He whistles. “Cosmo~! My sweet giant monster wolf thi~ng~! Where are you~!” 

He shakes the box of treats. Waits a second. 

No dice. 

Exasperated, Lance blows out a raspberry and flings himself onto the nearest park bench. He’s been searching for  _ at least _ ten minutes! What a bust!

Part of the reason he bought the collar in the first place was because it has a fancy-schmantzy tracking device built right in. But when he logs onto the app, the tracking device must be on the fritz. Because it says the wolf is  _ right here _ ...right here, only, above him. Right here, only….3,500 km  _ above the surface of the Earth _ ?

Lance looks up into the night sky and frowns. Yeah, no. 

So. That’s not right. 

Lance sighs. “So much for Operation: Bonfire,” he grumbles. He should be headed home soon. His apartment complex is within walking distance of the park, but he has an early morning tomorrow and he can’t be traipsing around in the dark and missing out on all his beauty sleep, now can he? 

There’s a shuffle in the woods behind him. Lance sits up from the park bench. He narrows his eyes into the dark. “If you think you can sneak up on me, try again, buster! Back off!!” He is not  _ about _ to be robbed in this park. He stands up. Shines the light between the trees. 

There’s a tinkle of noise. 

“Cosmo?” Lance takes a step forward. “Cosmo is that you?” 

It  _ is _ her. Lance is 85% sure it is, anyways. He takes off at a sprint towards the noise. 

There’s a flash of gray fur. “Cosmo!” Lance calls. 

Only now the flash seems to be black hair. And a red jacket?

“Cosmo?” Lance is out of breath now, deeper into the woods than he has ever ventured before. There’s a slight clearing up ahead. A water tower, one of few remaining hallmarks of the old city, sits away from the trees. The light on top of it still works, casting the clearing in a milky glow. 

“Cosmo?” Lance repeats, stepping out of the trees. 

And he walks straight into the pointed edge of a knife. 

Lance screams. 

“Why are you following me?” The man on the other side of the knife growls. 

(And it  _ is  _ a growl, somehow deeper in his throat than seems natural, rasping out of him as if snagging on all the consonants.) 

“Why are  _ you _ running?” Lance shoots back. He fumbled the lightflux amplifier when he was startled, so it’s now lying in the grass, forlorn, a few paces away. He holds up the box of Milk-Bones in front of him as a shield. 

The man does not lower the knife— which Lance finds extremely rude, to be honest— but he does give Lance a wide-eyed look of disbelief. 

“Because you’re chasing me?” His voice, this time, loses a bit of the rasp. Even cracks a bit. 

Lance grins from behind his box of dog treats. “Listen dude, if you want to, I dunno, act out some kind of weird tag roleplay thing in the middle of the night, be my guest. Last I checked, it’s a free country. But I’m not chasing you. I’m looking for my dog.” He lowers his Milk-Bones shield and, instead, gives the box a shake to demonstrate. 

The man looks confused and very angry about it. 

Lance rolls his eyes and shows the man the app on his phone. “See, it says she’s right…” 

The location has changed, 

“...Here.” Lance squints down at his phone. 

Cosmo sits down next to the man. 

Who Lance now notices has the blue collar clutched in the hand not wielding his knife. 

Lance sputters. What the fuck! 

“You stole my collar!” Lance shouts. 

“Y-your collar?!” The man looks confused for a moment before realizing. He jumps slightly and throws the collar on the ground as if it is a poisonous snake. 

“Hey!” Lance shouts. That thing cost almost a whole week’s worth of work credits!

“So you’re the one who’s been feeding her!!” The man shouts. 

“Because she’s my dog!” Lance throws up his hands. 

“Since when!” 

Lance counts on his fingers. Did she first drop into him and Blue on a Monday, or was it a Tuesday? It doesn’t matter. “Alright, hotshot, what’s her name then?” 

“Woof,” the man says. He seems sullen to admit it. 

(Probably because that’s a terrible name.) 

“Woof?!” Lance spits back, incredulous. “What kind of a name is  _ Woof _ ?” 

“The one she chose!” The man, says, hot. He seems almost feral when he hisses the response. There’s something about his teeth that’s not quite right...

Lance steps back. Woah. Okay. Dude has a temper. 

“Okay, okay,” he lifts up his hands. “Woof. I get it. Don’t stab me.” 

The man blinks. The blade disappears to wherever he keeps it. “Not gonna hurt you,” the man mumbles. He frowns. 

Good to know. Lance nods and gives the man his most charming, thank-you-for-not-stabbing-me smile. He even manages to hide his nerves. “Name’s Lance,” he says, sticking out his hand. “I also go by: too young and beautiful to be maimed in a public park at night.” 

“Keith.” The man’s grip is bruising; he doesn’t seem to understand handshakes. Instead he just squeezes Lance’s hand to death. 

“Keith?” Lance manages to pry his hand out of Keith’s. It takes some doing. He tugs so hard he almost falls over with the effort. (He does not fall over, though he does teeter a bit.) 

The only other Keith that Lance knows is a dude who repeated sophomore year of high school. He was infamous because in his second sophomore year, that Keith was arrested for cooking meth in a couple of toilets he dragged out of the city dump and kept stored in his trailer. “Keith?” Lance repeats, wrinkling his nose. 

“I’m not from around here,” Keith explains. 

“Oh, like, out of state?” Lance asks, shaking his hand out. Most of the feeling is coming back into his fingers now.

“Like, out of solar system?” Keith ventures, looking hesitant. 

Lance frowns. Opens his mouth. Closes it. 

“What kind of a name for an alien is  _ Keith _ ?” 

“A good name!” Keith says, bristling. “That’s what you take issue with?! What’s with you and names?!” 

He looks to Cosmo/Woof and gives her a look like he expects the wolf to agree.

“Okay first of all, Keith, names are very important. If I was, like, named Henry or Thomas or Renaldo or something, I’d be a completely different person. Second of all,” Lance waves his hand in the air as if this is obvious, “Why should I be surprised? Aliens are real.” 

Keith is looking at Lance like he’s the alien. Which, technically, to Keith, he is. 

_ “What.” _ Keith hisses. 

Lance snaps his fingers and points at Keith. “I know! Show me your spaceship.” 

“No.” Keith bristles (even more). He crosses his arms. “That’s classified.” 

“ _ That’s classified,” _ Lance mocks in a stupid voice. “Alright then, hotshot. Convince me.” 

Keith is unimpressed. 

He keeps his eyes open but a membrane slides down over them, casting the sclera a sickly yellow. 

Lance screams. 

Keith rolls his eyes and the membrane disappears. 

“DUDE! I’m gonna hurl, what the FUCK!” Lance twitches his arms in consternation and does a whole body shiver. “Gross!” 

“Heh.” Keith darts forward and grabs Lance’s face with both hands. And does it again. His pupil is not quite round, more of a slit than a circle. And the membrane looks sticky as it slides over his eye. 

Lance sputters. “Nasty!” 

The pads of Keith’s fingers against his cheeks are rough, and this close, he  _ smells _ alien. Like a depth of darkness that Lance cannot fathom, like spices he’s never tasted, like foreign soap on foreign fabric, like something completely and totally unknown. Lance breathes it in, eyes wide, caught in Keith’s grasp. 

Keith is basically the same height as Lance, but as he holds Lance in place, the lines of their bodies flush together, he seems larger-than-life. Overwhelming in intensity. He looks down into Lance’s eyes, so close that their noses are practically touching. There’s a slight puff of air that is Keith’s breath ghosting over his lips. 

Lance’s heart thuds in his ears. He feels at once: exposed. Like Keith is seeing straight through him. Vulnerable. Like Keith could rip him in two. Drawn in. Like he wants to know more. 

His mouth is dry. 

“Convinced?” Keith asks, letting him go, some eternity later. He’s smug. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Lance manages, voice unnaturally pitched. He feels the need to tug at the collar of his shirt, fan himself off, but he resists. 

An entire alien. Right here. Damn. 

“So. Are you here to, like, take over the planet?” Lance says, once he’s recovered. He counts off on his fingers, gesturing as he considers possible motives for alien invasion. “Or like, give us brain worms? Snatch our bodies? Harvest our organs?!” 

Keith scoffs. “No. No one wants your organs.” 

“Okay, well, first of all: rude.” Lance starts naming off all of the ways in which Keith has just offended him and his beautiful organs. He doesn’t get far before he interrupts himself: “Oh! The cow thing! You must be here to abduct all our cows! Dude, you messed up, this is a  _ city. _ The only cow I’ve ever seen—”

“What.” Keith says. “What are you  _ talking  _ about? Lance?” 

“You know? Flying saucers? Tractor beams? Fox Mulder?” 

_ “I have no idea what he’s talking about,”  _ Keith murmurs, half under his breath. Cosmo neither agrees nor disagrees with his assessment. 

Lance raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “Y’know for an alien, you’re pretty boring. ‘Cept for the nasty eye thing.” 

“Thanks?” 

“Don’t mention it,” Lance says, collecting his box of Milk-Bones and portable lightflux adapter. He raises a hand in good-bye. Close encounters of the third kind is officially cutting into his beauty sleep. “See you around, Keith.” 

*

Keith is permitted a limited number of rotations to complete his mission. 

Keith has exceeded those rotations. 

With narrowed eyes, he surveys the alleyway. All clear. For now. He slips out his comm. 

**Request for extension:** _ Permission granted. Submit new mission parameters at first earliest opportunity. New timeline will be established and communicated to agent subsequent to review. Failure to comply will result in disciplinary action up to and including mission extraction and/or limitations placed on future assignments.  _ _ Accept _ _ to notate receipt of message and agreement to comply.  _

Keith scoffs, muttering under his breath. ‘Mission extraction’ his ass. He’d like to see them try. He toggles to ‘Accept’ and hits the send button. But not before he takes a screenshot and sends it to Krolia. She responds immediately:

**> >** ...I’d like to see them try 

A tiny blade icon rotates in the bottom corner indicating that she is typing another message. No doubt full of vitriol on behalf of her son. Keith blinks down at it, slightest smile tugging on his lips, 

“Keith! Keith, is that you?” 

In one rush of movement, Keith slips his comm back into place and has his knife in hand. He flattens himself against the wall, crouching down further into the shadows. He’ll engage if necessary, but the civilian casualty allocation for this mission is zero. Botching the mission’s proposed timeline is a non-issue, but if he has to report an escalation that led to violence in a non-combat situation, then he really will be in hot water. 

“It  _ is _ you!” The human peers over the garbage receptacle behind which Keith is positioned. “What are you doing down there, man?” 

It’s the human from the previous night. The one obsessed with names and cows. He seemed to be harmless, if slightly loud. Keith straightens up, instinctively squaring his shoulders. “Strategizing.” 

“...Behind the Starbucks?” Lance asks, motioning to the backdoor of the building the two of them are standing behind. He frowns, swaying slightly to the side to look behind Keith. “And next to...the dumpster?” 

“Yes.” Keith says. 

Lance squints. “Uh huh. Okay, well,” 

“How did you find me?” Keith demands. If his position has been compromised, he’ll need to regroup. 

“ _ She  _ found  _ me, _ ” Lance corrects. He points to the wolf at his side. (Who has remnants of whipped cream on her muzzle.) 

_ ‘Traitor,’  _ Keith mouths at her. She wags her tail. 

“Yeah, the barista said that she has never seen such a pretty pooch!” Lance coos, patting the wolf on the head. “And, turns out, Kosmo loves a Puppuccino!” 

“What.” Keith hisses. He has never heard of ‘Puppuccino.’ He shoots the wolf a concerned look. 

“Oh yeah, by the way,” Lance drawls, sitting down on the step close to where Keith is crouching. He adjusts the strap of his bag and crosses his feet at the ankles, leans back on his hands, indicating that he intends to stay indefinitely.

(And Keith takes note of the length of his legs, and the way his pants skim high enough to reveal the pretty jut of his ankle bone above baby-blue socks.) 

(Observation is integral to his position as a Blade operative.) 

“Meant to tell you, I came up with a compromise for us,” 

“Huh?” Keith asks. 

“Kosmo.” 

When Keith makes no comment, Lance continues: 

“Kosmo, instead of Cosmo. And don’t say there’s no difference!! Because  _ now _ I’m saying Kosmo with a ‘K.’ Like ‘Keith’! So it’s perfect!!” Lance leans to the side, closer to Keith, like he’s telling Keith a secret. “And still much better than Woof.” 

And then Lance grins. 

And Keith notices how pretty his smile is, pretty white teeth in a pretty mouth. The pretty way it reaches his eyes, how they crinkle at the sides. Lance has a freckle close to his laugh lines and it all but disappears when he smiles. Pretty. 

(Observation is integral to his position as a Blade operative.) 

“Kay?” Lance asks. 

“---O-S-M-O.” Keith finishes. He understands (kinda). “Kosmo.” 

Lance looks confused for a moment. “...Right. Yeah. Exactly. You got it.” His mouth works, like he might be holding back a smile. “Definitely.” 

Mostly mystified by this entire interaction, Keith nods. Does the human really think that the wolf has formed an attachment to him? Is that why he’s lingering? This is strange.  _ Unprecedented interaction with locals,  _ Keith mentally reports. “Uh.” He’s not sure how to continue. 

Keith is grateful for the distraction when his comm vibrates against the inside of his jacket pocket. He’s not used to having jacket pockets yet— the red leather jacket is cool, but keeping his comm tucked in his gauntlet is infinitely more convenient. After a moment of confusion he manages to find the device and check the messages. 

“Woah, alien technology,  _ niiiiice _ ,” Lance says, craning over to get a better look at it in Keith’s hands. 

Keith shoots him a glare. “Stop,” he mutters, turning slightly so that Lance won’t get a chance to read any classified intel. (The text is in Galran, but the Blades haven’t survived for thousands of years by being sloppy.) 

“Man, c’mon, what’s the point in being friends with an alien if I don’t even get to see the cool sci-fi shit?” Lance whines. 

Keith freezes. Friends. They’re friends? Him and Lance? But….they just met? He turns his head slightly, giving Lance a look over his shoulder. “What.” 

“Lemme see,” Lance says, sitting up to make grabby hands at Keith. When he’s unsuccessful, he pulls his legs up and collapses over his knees with a sigh. He sighs again, flicking a pebble in Keith’s general direction before wrapping his arms around his thighs. “Jerk.” 

He’s ridiculous. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Keith snorts. “Don’t you have something else to do?” 

Lance sits up. He pulls a small device from his pants pocket and clicks the side. It’s not so different from Keith’s comm, though the Earth tech is laughably basic. The screen lights up. “Oh shit!” He pops to his feet, and for a moment, Keith’s field of vision is all long legs and slender waist. Lance dips down to grab his bag. “I do have a few more deliveries today! See you later, Keith!” 

And he winks and shoots a finger gun in Keith’s direction before running out of the alley. 

Keith looks at the wolf. “Kosmo,” he says. Just to try it. 

To his complete and utter dismay, she seems to like it. She nudges his hand with a happy snort. When he indulges her in an under-the-chin scratch, she gets carried away and flops over for a belly rub. 

Also to his complete and utter dismay: 

He keeps running into Lance. 

*

Keith kicks the blankets off of his legs. He’s in his cot aboard his cruiser. Still stationed high above the planet’s surface. The lights are low— all systems on stand-by mode for the sleep cycle. Keith is not asleep. He’s thinking about Lance. 

They ran into each other again today. The fifth time in as many rotations. And though Keith is no closer to his mission objective, he has somehow developed a kind of repertoire with the strange Earth boy known as Lance.

The human has no qualms accepting Keith as alien. None. Which, on a Class L planet like Earth (zero extra-planetary contact) is ludicrous in and of itself. But Lance isn’t concerned? His only worry seems to be the fashionable-ness of Keith’s jacket? And hair? 

He has nothing but patience as Keith fumbles through foreign social events (like the mall “food court”) but he laughs when Keith is prepared to defend himself against possible threats. (E.g. the so called “sprinkler” system at the park.) 

Ridiculous. Keith turns in bed, tucking his hands under his pillow and frowning into the dark. 

How ridiculous he is when he snaps his fingers over the blue moped that he loves, and how he crows in glee when it rumbles to life in response. The machine is barely capable of flight (it hovers just slightly above the pavement as Lance scoots around town) but Lance treats it as though it is a marvel. 

(Keith considers for a moment how Lance would look on the back of his cherry apple red hoverbike, and how he might whoop as Keith took them flying through Daibazaal’s capitol city. He’d hang tight around Keith’s waist, lean close and closer around Keith,) 

(But that doesn’t have anything to do with being a Blade operative…)

Keith is thinking about Lance’s floofy hair. How soft it looks, even curling under the summer heat when Lance is frazzled from working all day. He’s thinking about bright blue eyes. Sun-kissed skin that’s so different from Keith’s space-pale complexion. 

(How that skin would look covered in love bites.) 

(How Lance would look flushed.)

(Underneath Keith.) 

( _ That _ definitely has nothing to do with his position as a Blade operative.) 

Keith blows out a heavy breath and shuffles to his other side. He punches the pillow into place. 

He’s thinking about seeing Lance this morning. How he yawned wide before giving Keith a lazy smile (“If it isn’t my favorite alien! Hey Keith! Why am I not surprised?”). Slim fingers smoothing down the collar of his button down as the two of them somehow fell into step together. He handed Keith a coffee that Keith didn’t ask for and promptly told him that it was too early for space invader games. His shirt had little sharks on it and needed ironing. 

Keith is thinking about Lance’s quick mouth. Even though he should be shocked at Keith’s very existence, he seems only to be amused by it. Keith confesses to him that he’s not spoken with any other humans and Lance’s eyes light up. His head tilts to the side and his soft mouth pulls into a wicked grin. He’s rude but when he jokes it's like he is sharing a private laugh with Keith and no one else. Like it's a joke that only the two of them are in on. 

Keith likes that. 

(He likes Lance.) 

“Adjust room settings: lights sixty per cent.” Keith shuffles out of bed. If he can’t sleep, he can at least run through a few training drills. 

*

Lance ticks up the volume on his music application. This morning he’s opted for something vintage, classy. Timeless. The opening beat has him bobbing his head, 

_ “Baby, can’t you see, I’m calling,  _

_ A guy like you should wear a warning,  _

_ It’s dangerous—” _

Singing along, he roots through the top drawer of his bathroom counter until he finds a few clips for his hair. Once satisfied that his bangs are secure, he squats down to peek at his collection under the sink. 

There’s bottles and vials and tubs and tubes, but Lance is on the hunt for something specific. Clarifying, but not too drying. Nothing harsh, but enough to make his skin tight and smooth. Just—

Ah, there it is! 

The mint green tube boasts dramatically improved skin. Lance can’t really believe the claim, seeing as it’s tough to improve on perfection, but. He’ll still enjoy the luxury. 

_ “You’re toxic,  _

_ I’m slippin’ under,”  _

Just a few moments later (Lance is an expert, afterall) and his face is coated in an even layer of mud mask. It’s lime green and tingly. Retrieving his smoothie from the edge of the sink— self care inside and out! — Lance makes his way from the bathroom to the couch. 

He sprawls out, takes a sip, closes his eyes. He has the day off. 

And, although he’s enjoying his laid-back morning, a little wiggle of disappointment manages to slip into his thoughts. Because. 

He probably won’t see Keith today. 

They’ve just happened to meet randomly every day for the past week, but somehow it’s become a staple in Lance’s routine: 

Worship Blue. Make his deliveries. Somehow run into Keith? 

Lance is careful not to smile so that he doesn’t crack his mud-mask. 

Whenever he catches Keith by surprise, Keith does this thing where he puffs up and tries to look tall. It’s stupid cute. 

He looks severe but Lance thinks it might just be because he doesn’t have practice emoting. Alien social cues and all that. Who knows, maybe he’s awkward even for an alien. They’re working on that. (Read: Lance is half teasing, half flirting with him, and Keith is getting angry in response.) 

He has fangs. Just little ones. They stick out of his mouth when he frowns. 

When Keith blushes, his whole face gets so red, and the color lingers there right in the tops of his cheeks. So red that his face matches his hideously-out-of-style fashion-disaster moto jacket. 

(Lance loves to see it.) 

He blushed like that when Lance first tugged on his arm, insisting that Keith quit it with his weird undercover, stay in the shadows, ‘I am the night’ thing and just walk like a normal dude on the sidewalk. Lance insisted and Keith grumbled and they walked side-by-side with Blue in between and Kosmo prancing around. It was a nice way to wrap up a day of work for Lance. 

He’s secretive about what he’s doing on Earth, but Lance doesn’t mind. Alien espionage isn’t really his bag. He’s just jazzed to have found someone who listens while he extols the many virtues of moped maintenance. (Keith listens with a little wrinkle between his brows, nodding at all the pauses.) 

(Lance loves that.) 

The most excited Lance has seen him is in the mall food court (they must not have Cinnabon in space). The boy went absolutely feral over cream cheese icing. “Lance!” He said, eyes wide and mouth full, “Have you tried this??” 

Lance can’t help but smile at that memory, and his mask is dry enough that it does crack. He lifts his fingers to his cheeks and gives them a hesitant prod. Yep, he’s done. Time to rinse it off—

There’s a  _ whoosh _ of sound, almost like air being displaced, and a shout, and a  _ crack! _ and suddenly, 

Lance’s coffee table is broken. 

Kosmo is barking over the music. 

Keith is laying in the middle of Lance’s living room. 

Lance screams, pulling his legs up onto the couch.  _ “What the fu— !!”  _

“Shit!” Keith scrambles out of the ruins of Lance’s IKEA masterpiece. He manages to make it to his feet, but then he stumbles. He blinks over at Lance. “Lance? It’s me, Keith, uh,” 

He’s bleeding, 

Lance swears. He’s at Keith’s side in an instant, placing a steadying hand at his elbow. “Keith? What the fuck, man,” 

Keith blinks. There’s a cut over his eyebrow and redpurple blood is dripping into his eye and down his face. “Why. Why are you green?” 

“Why are you  _ bleeding, _ is the question Keith! C’mon!” 

Keith pulls out of Lance’s touch and teeters over, looking around. “Why am I  _ here _ ?” He seems to be looking for an exit. 

“Oh no, Mr. I’m-Gonna-Alien-Invade-Your-Living-Room-While-Having-Sustained-A-Head-Injury! You’re not going anywhere!” Lance tuts at him and pulls him back in the general direction of the couch. He shoves Keith into a sitting position.

Keith sits, evidently too confused to argue.  _ “I should be on my ship,” _ he murmurs.  _ “Why are you green. Am I unconscious.”  _

Lance waves a hand. “Stay.” He points at Kosmo. “You! Make sure he stays.” 

The face mask gets washed off in record time, and soon Lance returns to the couch with an ancient First Aid kit his Ma made him take to college, a wet cloth, a glass of water, and no small amount of chiding. 

“First of all,” Lance kneels down, snapping the kit open. He cleans up the cut on Keith’s cheek as best he can. It looks deep. His hands are shaking. His mouth is dry. “How dare you. How dare you get hurt! And then, after beaming in here like some goddamn Starfleet halfwit, bleeding, you just try to walk right out the door, I swea—”

Keith snorts, then winces a little. He mumbles something. 

“What was that?” Lance says, feeling as though he’s close to panic. He doesn’t know— if the wound won’t stop bleeding, can he take Keith to the hospital? He’s a delivery boy, not a doctor, damnit. 

Keith wraps steady fingers around Lance’s wrist. He looks at him through messy bangs. “I said, I’ve definitely violated the prime directive then.” 

Lance frowns. Pauses. Tilts his head. 

“Okay.” Lance says slowly. “If you’re really that much of a nerd you can leave, actually.” 

Keith laughs then, a full sound, genuine and warbling. It’s the first time Lance has heard it: soft and slightly raspy and breathy. A real laugh. 

“I’m not,” Keith assures. He takes the square of gauze out of Lance’s hand, smells it, wrinkles his nose, and then tosses it aside. Instead he pulls a container out of one of the pouches on his belt. “My dad, he used to like those old shows. So that’s how I know.” 

Lance watches as Keith somehow has the container transform into a little mirror which hovers in front of his face. He takes out an instrument and begins to stitch up his wound. 

It makes Lance feel slightly sick to his stomach to witness, but Keith seems unfazed. Maybe there’s some kind of numbing agent in the tools? Or he’s simply practiced in patching himself up in a pinch. Regardless, it’s a lot. 

Lance slowly takes one of the clips from his bangs and uses it to lift up Keith’s hair off his forehead. His hair is silky to the touch, fine and soft in the way it slips through Lance’s fingers. Violet eyes flick to his before Keith focuses again on the mirror. 

“Didn’t know you guys had cable up there,” Lance says, breaking the silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets to avoid running his hands through Keith’s hair again. It looks funny all clipped back over his forehead, sticking out around his widow’s peak. 

Keith snips the edge of the material and finishes with the patch job. He busies himself with making a solution out of materials with his pack and applying that to the wound. “We don’t,” he says after a moment. Quiet.“Pops was from here.” 

Lance pauses. 

Keith is...only half alien? 

“...but he passed when I was a kid and so there’s not much that I know about him besides what Mom has told me. And. Um. I don’t know much about Earth at all. So that’s why I had to have this mission, even though it’s a non-combat level operation, and not, really, my speciality. I knew I had to see it, uh,” 

“This is your first time on Earth?” Lance interrupts. “But you’re half human?” 

“Yeah. Yeah?” Keith frowns. 

“Man! What have we been doing?!” Lance stands up. “We’ve been to the park and the mall, and like, nowhere! Dude, what the hell! You should’ve told me! There’s so much more you have to experience! The beach, first of all—” 

Keith smiles up at Lance. “I’m not on vacation, Lance. I have a mission.” 

Mission-Shcmission! If Lance only got one shot at seeing his home planet, you can bet he would not be spending it  _ working! _ He rolls his eyes. “Okay, ET, and what is that?” 

Keith scowls, 

“And don’t say classified!! You keep too many secrets, Keith! You’re half human, we’re all in this together!” 

Keith rolls his eyes, but then he does cave. He gives Lance some long winded explanation about an element that can be used to house data and how it’s been depleted in many places across the universe, but for some reason Earth has it in excess, yadda, yadda, yadda, 

“Huh.” Lance goes to the messenger bag he uses for work. It’s hanging on a hook by the door. Kosmo lifts her head (she’s been lying on the floor, more or less content) and wags her tail when Lance opens it. He pulls out a silver cube. “It almost sounds like you’re looking for one of these.” 

Keith stands. All of the first aid shit— Lance’s ancient kit, and Keith’s alien tech one— goes tumbling to the ground around his feet. His mouth is open. He points. 

Kosmo gets up and barks. 

“The whole time?!” Keith asks, having regained his voice. 

“Huh?” Lance tosses the cube up in the air and catches it, spinning it on the tip of his finger. They are deceptively light, these cubes. “The whole time, what?” 

“You’ve had a whole bag. Of those. The entire time?” 

Lance nods, like,  _ duh.  _

“I have a million of ‘em.” Lance puts this particular cube back into his bag and grabs one off of his bookshelf. It’s a little dusty so he blows it off. This is the sample the boss gave him during onboarding, when he first started with the company. All the other ones belong to clients, but this one is his. “Here,” he tosses it at Keith, “You can keep it.” 

**“Target: Acquired”** A little chime dings from somewhere on Keith’s person and the silver cube dissolves, having apparently been uploaded to the mothership, or whatever the fuck. 

Lance grins. “Sounds like you’re officially clocked out, Keith, you half-human you! Let’s have some fun!” 

Keith is stubborn, obviously. But Lance is, by now, an expert in aliens. He’s very convincing. He gets his way. 

*

Keith has lived aboard various space vessels since he was born. He has been flying them since he was seven. He’s spent less of his life with his feet on solid ground than he has in manufactured gravity. But. He has never felt quite this light. 

Lance has a hand on his wrist, touching him lightly as if to pull him along. They ate lunch together on the Boardwalk, holographic ads spinning in the air above the booths, music and smells and the press of people overwhelming and strange. 

Keith has now eaten a “coney-dog” and a “funnel cake.” (Neither was as delicious as the cinnamon roll, which may be the crowning achievement of human cuisine.) 

Keith has now been inside an arcade. (And soundly beat Lance at every hologame. He pouted.) 

Keith has now seen the ocean. The real ocean of planet Earth. Heard the waves. Felt the salty air on his face and the sand between his toes. (And how strange is that, to be docked on a foreign planet and have his boots off? But it doesn’t feel foreign, not really, not when Lance is making weird faces at the seagulls and shouting and running in the surf.) 

(Ridiculous.) 

**< < ** Did Dad like the beach 

He texts Krolia. He’s never heard stories like the one he’s living now. 

**> > ** I do not know. 

**> > ** Do you like the beach?

**> > ** That seems the more relevant question 

A sun he’s never really felt is beating down on his face, and Lance is telling him a long, complicated anecdote about people he’s never met. Keith smiles. 

**< <** Yeah 

Yeah. He does. 

*

The sun sinks far behind the ocean, and the crowds on the boardwalk thin, and groups of people spot over the strip of sand, new parties just beginning. Keith and Lance walk past these with Kosmo at their side. Snippets of conversation and music catch over the wind and drift between their silence. 

Keith mentioned that he would be leaving before the next rotation. 

He wasn’t prepared for how Lance’s face fell, how his chin dipped. The false positivity in his voice after that, how the smile didn’t color his blue eyes. 

The mission is complete, but Keith finds that he doesn’t want to leave. Keith finds that he doesn’t want to say goodbye to the ridiculous Earth boy known as Lance. 

So they walk, and Keith tells him, just a little, about life with the Blades. Lance listens, really listens. Their shoulders bump as they walk side-by-side. Keith’s face still feels warm from the sun, the cool night breeze is a comfort. Lance’s hand brushes his. 

“So. And you better not be pulling my leg with this shit, Keith,” 

Keith looks at Lance’s legs (which he is  _ not  _ pulling.  _ Although _ …), 

“You’re honestly telling me that in space. Lit-ter-al. Space. You’ve gotten stuck in traffic?” 

Keith huffs. This story is supposed to be about the warlord Ghoj and how Krolia led an initiative with Keith and two other Blades. And how the four of them single-handedly took out a crime syndicate that was plaguing an entire star system. It was  _ not _ a story about the trouble they had docking on Ghoj’s homeworld. 

Lance sucks his teeth. “Is it not, like, infinite?!” 

Keith throws up his hands. “Yeah! But right at that moment it wasn’t! Lance!” 

The tell-tale sound of an explosion hisses through the air. Keith has his knife in his hand in an instant. Kosmo’s ears are cocked. 

“Relax, guys, it’s just fireworks. The local—”

A familiar fizzly feeling starts at the tip of Keith’s nose. 

…

Compared to the warmth of the sand, the floors of his ship are cold beneath his bare feet. Keith shivers. 

Kosmo whines. She looks up at Keith and gives the smallest wag of her tail. 

“Shhh,” Keith drops to a knee, pulling the enormous wolf in for a hug. “Shhh, it’s okay.” 

“Keith.” 

Keith smooths down the soft fur of Kosmo’s cheeks, comforting. She’s spooked. “Yeah.” 

“I’m. Are.” Lance swallows. “Are we in space?” 

“Oh.” Keith stands. He gives Lance a hesitant smile. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This is breaking at least five critical statutes of Blade operative conduct. (Keith has always followed the spirit of the law more than the law itself.) 

(Right now the spirit of the law is that there is a gorgeous, ridiculous Earth boy about half a xat from Keith’s bed.) 

“Yeah. This is my ship. Uh. Surprise?” 

“I’m in space.” 

Lance looks like his knees are going to buckle, so Keith puts an arm around him, just in case. 

“Take a breath, Lance.” 

Lance inhales, eyes fluttering shut. Keith can feel him stand up straight. 

He opens his eyes, grins at Keith. Taps him on the chest, excited. “Holy fucking shit!! Keith!! Space!!” 

At the bow of the ship, there’s a broad window looking out onto the Earth below. Lance rushes to it. He crawls over the dash, getting as close to the surface as he can. He’s shaking with excitement and a steady stream of curses (not all of them English, Keith thinks) is coming out of his mouth. 

“Wow,” Lance breathes. 

And again, “Wow.” 

And over and over and over: “Wow,” 

“You keep saying that,” Keith points out. It’s been a solid half varga and Lance hasn’t gotten tired of the view. 

“Uh, excuse me! Marveling at the wonder of the universe, over here!!” Lance says, turning around to give Keith a look. 

Keith tilts his head, one cheek resting on his fist. He’s sitting in the pilot’s seat. Lance is in front of him, flitting from side-to-side. His eyes are bright and his hair is floofy and he’s got all the wonder of the universe stirring in his smile. 

“I would never get tired of this,” Lance sighs, genuine. 

Keith can’t help but agree. 

“Thank you,” Lance says, suddenly. He turns to Keith. 

“For what?” Keith asks. He looks up to Lance. Lance who is standing there, ridiculous, with the backdrop of Earth behind him. 

“For,” Lance’s hands turn over in the air, “For this. For trusting me, I guess. For not stabbing me. For hanging out with me and telling me cool alien shit. Y’know. For everything.” 

Keith shakes his head. How many people could he have run into that would have made him experience Earth— this piece of him that he’s longed to know better— the way Lance let him experience it? Relaxed and natural and ridiculous and good. 

“I should thank you,” Keith says. Simple. He smiles. 

“Keith.” Lance pauses. He’s standing in front of Keith, hesitating. He looks down, then back up to Keith’s face, resolve flitting serious over his features. “I wanna kiss you.” 

Keith’s heart jumps— like fireworks, like lightness. He inhales, 

“Oh shoot,” Lance stutters. “A kiss— wait, do you know what a kiss is? I could explain. With words. Or my mouth. Words come out of my mouth, but,” 

“I know what a kiss is, Lance,” Keith snorts. He pulls Lance into his lap. 

Lance goes willingly, but not before leaning over and giving Kosmo a head pat. He tells her: “Operation: Bonfire. Officially a success.” 

“What?” Keith asks, frowning. Lance’s legs, his thighs are bracketing Keith’s waist. Understanding him is difficult at the best of times, but with Lance touching him? Nearly impossible. Keith still asks. 

Lance grins, bright. “That’s classified,” he says, close enough for Keith to feel the words against his lips. 

Which is so ridiculously _ ridiculous  _ that Keith can’t do anything but kiss him in response. Lance makes a surprised little noise and Keith adjusts, teasing his mouth open. Chasing every ridiculous bit of him. 

Lance is warm. Keith’s hands find purchase at his waist, the small of his back. Lance slips a lock of Keith’s hair behind his ear, then gives the ear a tug. His mouth is soft, but he smiles into the kiss. And Keith thinks about finding his way home and the way that people can come together. 

  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> so I guess I’m incapable of writing something less than 5k now? Cool, cool. lol this was not supposed to be this long 
> 
> That cosmo headline is a real thing, I did not make up the bonfire in your pants line
> 
> you know where to [find me](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan)! I love Keith!!!


End file.
